


The Bryukhamin Collection

by interstate_69



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Dom/sub, Fluff, M/M, Sexual Tension, Smut, kiss, late nights at the office, regular updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21778078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstate_69/pseuds/interstate_69
Summary: Lovingly dedicated to our two favorite guys in suits who are at the top of the Chernobyl administration chain: as many Bryukhanov x Fomin one-shots as I can possibly write.
Relationships: Viktor Bryukhanov/Nikolai Fomin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	1. Kiss

The office clock read late. Viktor Bryukhanov, seated at his desk, rested his head in his hands. His concentration was starting to slip as the clock ticked later on into the night. Spread over the top of the desk was paperwork that needed to be reviewed. Technical reports, financial statements, and party committee documents blurred together in his vision. Letters swam before his eyes. He picked over the papers, blinking away the urge to sleep. The papers bore him to death sometimes. He pushed his chair away from the desk and stood up, stepping aside to pace around his office without really thinking about it. The time was stuck on his mind, along with a hundred other numerical figures that concerned the operation of the Chernobyl nuclear plant. It was too late to be so deeply concentrated on business, and yet it was too early to go home, not with so many urgent documents piled up. Bryukhanov sighed.

Two quiet knocks on the door of his office almost escaped his notice. "Come in," he called, too deep in thought to bother with more than a quick look at his visitor, whom he identified as Nikolai Fomin, his chief engineer, at a glance. Fomin was here at his office... with another stack of papers in his hand. Bryukhanov groaned inwardly at the thought of his work pile growing higher.

"The recent set of reports came in some time ago." Fomin kept hold of the papers, looking expectant.

"Set it on the desk." Bryukhanov's eyes were on the clock once again. His face was set into a mask of weariness. Fomin lingered after setting the papers down, keeping his eyes on his boss.

"Is everything all right?"

Bryukhanov turned his head to look at Fomin, who returned his gaze, simultaneously noticing the slump in Bryukhanov's shoulders and the dullness in his eyes. There was a pause as Bryukhanov took in the question.

"No, everything is not all right," he finally said. "Look at the energy demands. Thousands of megawatts are being drawn from our lines every day and the cities only keep growing. Look at how much work I have." Bryukhanov waved his arm to gesture sharply to the desk. The papers remained, silent reminders of his workload. The heavy job of plant director weighed on his mind, and he fell silent as quickly as he spoke, wishing for just one bit of decent rest.

Fomin didn't break the silence immediately. His eyes shifted to the side, thinking. He was debating with himself about whether or not to say what was on his mind. If Bryukhanov noticed this internal conflict, he said nothing to acknowledge it. The two men stood in the office: boss and subordinate, director and chief engineer. Different jobs, but on the same chain of command, and currently suffering through the same late night of work.

"Viktor," Fomin began hesitantly.

"What is it?"

"Well... look at you. The people and the party members pile so much demand on you, and you're still so dedicated to your job," Fomin kept his eyes fixed on his boss, studying him intently from behind his thick glasses. "This plant, these workers, none of it could even run without you."

"Nikolai, you flatter me."

"I'm serious." Fomin couldn't stifle the admiration that crept into his voice. "Your effort built this plant. Your directing skills are incredible.  
Forget what the bureaucrats say. They don't have a quarter of your intelligence, or your... your..." Fomin trailed off, knowing that if he talked any further he would have started to stutter. Or say something that he would regret very quickly. Countless flattering thoughts about Bryukhanov echoed in his mind, and many of them would have been unprofessional or downright inappropriate to mention. Fomin bit his tongue, dreading the response, worrying that Bryukhanov could read his mind. His eyes flicked over Bryukhanov's face, watching the look in his eyes, the stress etched into his expression, those thick curls of dark hair over his head that Fomin secretly wished to run his hands through--

"I'm truly touched," Bryukhanov said, his expression growing ever so slightly warm. And then an amused smile tugged at his mouth. "And you really can't hide your little crush on me, can you? It's written all over your face." Fomin flinched. So he HAD been painfully obvious. Embarrassed, he wished desperately that he had stayed professional, despite the unmistakable thrill at his hidden feelings finally being acknowledged. He kept his mouth shut, hardly daring to look up from the floor. But Bryukhanov didn't deliver the reprimand or shame that he had been expecting. He merely walked over to the desk, where Fomin stood, and slid a hand over Fomin's shoulder, a gesture of recognition. What kind of recognition? Fomin's mind raced as he overthought. Professional, or something more? He felt Bryukhanov's grip tighten. Fomin kept his head down, but Bryukhanov drew nearer. In response to the submission in Fomin's stance, Bryukhanov loomed over him. Every one of his movements seemed to hold control and power, like a director should have. Against his will, Fomin loved it.

Bryukhanov had his subordinate in the palm of his hand, and he knew it, and relished it. Which is why he decided to push Fomin's feelings even higher. Bryukhanov put a hand under Fomin's chin and tilted his face up. He stepped forward. Decisively. Fomin hardly had time to open his mouth in surprise before it was plugged by Bryukhanov's lips. The sensation of a hot, breathless kiss was overwhelming. It tasted of intimacy that had been a long time in the making. The two men stayed together in that kiss for what seemed like an age, but was hardly more than a couple of seconds. Heat rushed over Fomin's face. The air felt charged. He opened his mouth to speak but could do little more than gasp for breath. He had nothing to say--his mind deserted him. Bryukhanov's amused smile turned to a wry, teasing smirk. He clapped Fomin on the shoulder.

"Don't forget, while I've been the director here for a long time, you've worked your fair share of late nights as well." Bryukhanov leaned back against his desk and lit a cigarette. "We've had many of them together, in fact." Fomin desperately tried to stop his mind from dreaming of late nights with Bryukhanov in a different, more erotic context. He squirmed under the implication. Bryukhanov seemed to enjoy watching him do so. 

Bryukhanov offered a second cigarette to Fomin, who accepted it, with shaking hands. The two leaned against the desk, smoking, hardly saying a word. The sexual tension was palpable. They were mere steps away from forgetting their work and losing themselves in each other. But for the time being, they stayed standing just barely apart from each other, sharing only cigarettes.


	2. Coffee Boy Nikolai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter that acknowledges Fomin is Bryukhanov's bitch and we all know it.

Engaged in his work, Nikolai Fomin stalked up and down the turbine hall of Chernobyl's third reactor building, carrying with him a number of instruments, pressure gauges, and a clipboard with a number of technical figures scrawled on it. In tow behind him was a handful of engineers and reactor personnel. Inspections had to be completed and checked, and Fomin's engineering experience ensured that he had a central hand in the process. The reactor containment building, the primary and auxiliary coolant systems, the electrical turbines... and every bit of the pipeworks that connected the systems together. Fomin paused, making another note on the clipboard.

"These will do. And the readouts from last week's operations?" Fomin asked, peering through his glasses at the writing, but directing the question to one of the men behind him.

"Already in the office. We've tried to organize them as much as possible, so you can easily compile them for Director Bryukhanov." The man relayed helpfully.

"For Director Bryukhanov... yes. Good, thank you." Fomin felt a nervous twinge at the mention of his boss, Viktor Bryukhanov. By the end of the week, he would have to appear in the man's office and relay all of this information directly to him. It's not that there was anything wrong with delivering the report. It was, however, true that Fomin felt very aware of his position as deputy. When under Bryukhanov, he found himself becoming supplicating and eager to please, less like a proper engineer and more like a secretary. Even though Bryukhanov lacked the overbearing mannerisms of a typical party man, he had a quietly dominating energy that could put Fomin in his place with just one look. And while Fomin loathed to admit it, he'd do almost anything for approval from Bryukhanov.

Stepping quickly, Fomin swung by the office to pick up the final set of papers, then began making his way to his boss' office. As he strode, he contemplated his position in their operations. Do this, do that, extra duties here, reports there; Fomin's life as Bryukhanov's right hand was one of submission. Not the most challenging or respected job for a chief engineer. Agitation wormed its way inside his mind. When Fomin entered the grounds of the reactor control buildings, he finally gained the chance to use his technical knowledge, and the shift supervisors there deferred to him. The dynamic was completely flipped when he entered Bryukhanov's presence. As Fomin stepped up to the office door, he took a moment to compose himself. Perhaps this time he wouldn't act so eager to please.

Yes, he would. It was the same as always. Fomin entered the office and roughly all of his defiant words left him. As he mentally rewrote what he wanted to say, he took in the familiar sight of his boss. Deep in his work, Bryukhanov was a vision of resolute directorate power, his shoulders squared over the thick wooden desktop, one hand flipping through a reference manual, the other lazily holding a cigarette. His eyebrows turned downward in a stern sort of concentration, and Fomin nearly regretted his intrusion, because it would disturb the enchanting stillness of Bryukhanov at work. Then Bryukhanov looked up towards him.

"The operational statistics I sent you for, do you have them?"

"Of course, they're right here--" Fomin thumbed through the papers, but under Bryukhanov's expectant gaze, his fingers caught between a few sheets and he ended up fumbling with the papers before accidentally dropping them on the floor. They scattered. He bent down to retrieve them, cursing. Bryukhanov waited patiently as Fomin gathered up his papers and finally placed them on the desk where they belonged.

"That's better." Bryukhanov took the papers and began to browse them. "And-- Nikolai, would you mind getting a cup of coffee for me?"

Fomin nearly nodded and turned towards the door without a second thought, but as he reached the doorway, some of his previous thoughts returned. "Isn't coffee a job more suited to an assistant? Rather than a chief engineer..." he trailed off as he met Bryukhanov's questioning gaze, which felt deadly serious. For a second, neither of them moved. Fomin feared he had said the wrong thing. Then Bryukhanov broke the tension with a chuckle.

"Of course it's an assistant's job." Bryukhanov tossed out another follow-up remark as Fomin departed the office: "If you really want to know, I just get a kick out of making you do it."

A single second of hesitation in Fomin's stride betrayed that he had definitely heard that. An assistant's job, indeed. But of course he was going to do it. Just like he did everything else at Bryukhanov's request. Walking into the hallway, Fomin ducked his head to conceal the flush of embarrassment on his face. The same word, submissive, thrummed through his mind with a certain rhythm. But so did thoughts of Bryukhanov. The way he looked in his office. The way his voice held that amused lilt. Fomin tried not to dwell on it, but he knew trying was futile.

And so he returned with the coffee. Announcing as he knocked: "Coffee for Comrade Bryukhanov." The formal address was more than a little sarcastic, given that he and Bryukhanov were typically on a first-name basis.

"Hmm, you returned." Bryukhanov remarked. "Half-expected you to dump the job on some unsuspecting assistant yourself." He couldn't keep the humor out of his smile. The sight of Nikolai Fomin, his own chief engineer, playing coffee boy just like he'd asked, was a source of inexplicable pleasure. "How obedient."

Fomin held the coffee and wore exasperation on his face. Bryukhanov found it endearing on him. All of him, really. Fomin, in his administrative brown suit, shoulders tensed, glasses straightened. A wry twist to his mouth. Despite carefully curated professional appearances, an unspoken mutual fondness carried through every interaction between them. As co-workers, they stood extremely close together in terms of administrative power. Most of the men at the plant saw them as a double act--where one went, the other followed. The plant bosses, in duplicate. At times, Bryukhanov regarded Fomin as practically his own shadow. A shadow he wished very much to lose himself in.

"How many more trips around the plant do you expect to make today?" Bryukhanov eyed Fomin.

"At this point, only the construction sites for reactor buildings five and six need my attention, and the foremen there can supervise the parts. I just have to approve their findings..." Fomin glanced down at his wristwatch, running through the schedule in his head. "We're well on time."

"Then you wouldn't object to staying for an unplanned meeting... in my office," Bryukhanov mused, already drumming up possibilities. He relished the thought of just a little bit of alone time with his subordinate. Hunger filled his mind at the prospect of having Fomin to himself. A little voice in the back of his head reminded him that he was on the clock. Damn the clock, he thought. And the operating papers on his desk wouldn't go away, but he could ignore them for the time being.

Fomin straightened up. The tension in his shoulders pulled imperceptibly tighter. "What did you have in mind?"

"Don't look so nervous. As far as the rest of the personnel are concerned, this is just another business meeting between us, understood?" Bryukhanov waited for Fomin's agreement, which came in the form of a nod. Then Bryukhanov took a long, slow sip of his coffee. "I have plans for us, Nikolai. Lock the door."

Bryukhanov rose from his chair. The room was short. He crossed it in a few strides. Right up to Fomin, who stood firm and tense, with a bit of a deer-in-headlights look on his face. He hesitated when Bryukhanov came closer, bringing his hands up reflexively, as if to cower behind them. Bryukhanov picked up on his nerves. Impatience rose in his gut. Dear Nikolai, don't be so stiff, he thought. He angled his head and gazed past Fomin's tempered glasses and right into his eyes. They were locked inches apart, neither willing to break any further ground. Fomin's hands shook. The closeness brought all of his uncertainty to bear--for years, the two men had spent their time in each other's presence staying carefully at a distance, afraid of betraying the calm on the surface, of causing a scandal. If anybody found them together in anything more than professional contact, there would be grave consequences. But here and now, the fire in Bryukhanov's eyes alone told Fomin their calm would be shattered. What an exhilarating promise, and a terrifying prospect.

"Viktor," Fomin began, his voice low, but unsteady. "Are you sure?" He didn't need to specify any further than that. Both men had full awareness of their feelings for each other. It was not a question of if, but when.

"Nobody will be in this office but you and me," Bryukhanov replied, the words in a jumble. Breathless. Overexcited. He and Fomin hardly shared more than stolen kisses in dead-of-night shifts they would both pretend had never happened. But this time he wanted to push it much, much further than that. Make it unforgettable.

"They may be expecting me..." Fomin broke eye contact to glance hurriedly at the door, his final chance to back out of the risk they were both taking.

"Oh, let me handle it." Bryukhanov said sharply. He cuffed his arm around Fomin's back and pulled him close on reflex--without even thinking--and just like that, their bodies were tilted together chest-to-chest almost like real lovers. Fomin inhaled sharply, but he didn't pull away. He didn't ever want to. And Bryukhanov was on him in a flash. He pinned Fomin against the door, practically on top of him, and they kissed madly, in a hurried exchange of incredibly long-stifled affection. Fomin clumsily raised his hand and ran it through Bryukhanov's dark hair. Each little touch brought more repressed emotion to the surface, and they braced themselves against each other, drinking in as much of the physical contact as they possibly could. Like it would be their last embrace. The heavy fabric of their expensive suits brushed together. Bryukhanov paused and fumbled with the buttons on his jacket, then wrenched it off his shoulders and tossed it over a nearby chair. Fomin followed suit rather frantically. 

Not a second of their time was wasted; Fomin had just barely dropped his jacket on the floor before Bryukhanov grabbed him by the tie. Lunged closer to him again. Pinned him, again. Fomin could scarcely draw breath. The feeling of his boss' body pressing him up against the door was suffocating, but he found himself aching for it, eating up every second of it, unwilling to escape from Bryukhanov's hold. While their mouths ran together, Bryukhanov let one hand slip downwards to loosen Fomin's belt.

Seconds after, he tore himself away from the other man abruptly and stumbled over to a chair. Fomin was practically thrown down into it. Head spinning, he tried to get his bearings. Bryukhanov still had one hand gripping his tie. Pulling on it. Like a goddamned leash--the comparison flashed through Fomin's mind instantly. He couldn't spare a bit of indignation for it. The arousal took his breath away. Bryukhanov tugged at the tie, and Fomin exhaled sharply, desperately hoping Bryukhanov wouldn't notice how hard he'd gotten. Bryukhanov did notice. Self-satisfaction flooded through him. He cast an appraising glance across Fomin, who was gripping the armrests of the chair, leaning forward heavily. His glasses were askew, his clothes disheveled, and he was entirely at Bryukhanov's mercy.

Bryukhanov responded by taking full ownership of the desperate man in front of him. Hand still wrapped around Fomin's tie, he brought one impeccably-polished dress shoe against the edge of the chair, bringing his heel down nearly between Fomin's legs. Bryukhanov leaned forward so that his body formed an arc over the chair, and he brought his shoulders in close. Fomin was enraptured. Bryukhanov's domineering attitude took his breath away.

Bryukhanov braced himself against the chair. He gripped Fomin roughly and held him back against the chair--the two men stayed together in a heated struggle of lust, hands grappling with each other's bodies. Fomin tugged at the buttons on Bryukhanov's shirt and managed to get a few of them undone. The next time they pulled apart, he stared at the sliver of Bryukhanov's bare chest with unbridled desire. Behind his oversize glasses, his eyes were full of admiration. Bryukhanov stopped short, holding his attention like a thread, a careful bind that kept them suspended in the heat of the moment, wordlessly trapped by each other. Until the spell broke and they came together again--Fomin held onto Bryukhanov's shoulders as Bryukhanov pressed his mouth against Fomin's--struggling, wanting. The office around them became their space for bringing their illicit desires to life, right beneath the notice of the unsuspecting power plant employees on their payroll.

The chair was hardly big enough for both men. Crammed together on it, there was no place for them to sit but against each other. Fomin found himself pressed right up against Bryukhanov's body. Frantic, breathless making out gave way to groping each other. Fomin's heart skipped a beat when he slipped his hand against Bryukhanov's pants. His boss was fucking packing.

Pants were unbuckled. A disheveled appearance clung to both of them: shirts untucked, buttons open, belts unfastened and pulled halfway off. Bryukhanov gripped the back of the chair and dipped his head close to Fomin.

"Get closer," Fomin breathed, running his gaze over Bryukhanov's wild hair and the equally wild look in his eye.

"There's no room on the damned chair," Bryukhanov returned. "The floor would be more comfortable."

"Then why not there?"

They spent hardly a second getting off the chair. Bryukhanov sat on the floor with his back leaned against the side of the desk. Fomin stumbled down to Bryukhanov's level and knelt on the floor just shy of Bryukhanov's legs.

"That's better. Come over and sit on my lap," Bryukhanov said, halfway through unzipping his pants.

"You know, I've thought about doing this before, but I never pictured it on the floor of your office in the middle of the day shift," Fomin said, gingerly climbing over Bryukhanov's legs and coming to rest his body weight on his thighs. The friction of movement caught on his pants and he stifled a brief moan, fighting the urge to touch himself. 

"I doubt we'll get a chance to do this anywhere else," Bryukhanov said, the bitter edge in his voice tempered with a heavy sort of longing. "We're working men, Nikolai. No beds for us, just offices and desk chairs." They shared a quick laugh at that, but it was humorless. The brief tryst in this office was all they had for themselves. There was, of course, no time to properly think about it. Their time ran short, and the fear of somebody pounding on the door, guard or employee, formed a prickly undercurrent in both their minds. Just get to it, they nodded.

Bryukhanov was hard as hell anyway. He refused to wait another second. He slipped out of his suit pants and pulled Fomin's off as well. They pushed up close to one another and Bryukhanov took over, handling things rather roughly. He slid his cock against Fomin's, keeping him in a slippery, pleasurable embrace. Grinding up against each other, their heavy breathing and panting was broken by bouts of deep kissing. Bryukhanov held the reins, pushing Fomin into moving however he demanded. He grabbed, he commanded, he whispered, he teased, and Fomin went mad for all of it. Bryukhanov had his arm gripping Fomin's waist, locking the man close against him, and they went at it faster and harder. Bryukhanov wrapped his hand around both their cocks, squeezed them together, and began to stroke. A rush of desperation gripped Fomin; his knees went weak at feeling Bryukhanov gripping him like that. He pushed Bryukhanov's head back against the desk in a lengthy, lascivious French kiss.

"Vitya, Vitya," Fomin begged. "Please, stroke a little harder,"

"Oh, that look on your face is perfect," Bryukhanov said, smirking as his grip tightened. Fomin's knees went weak, and he slumped against Bryukhanov, moaning. Their legs were tangled together. Heat flushed across Bryukhanov's face, and his hair was even more of a wild mess than usual. He was trying hard to keep enough composure to be able to boss Fomin around, but even he couldn't hold on for too long. He was going to lose himself in the pleasure.

They kept at it. Madly. No one to stop them, no one to find them, just the two as they had wanted to be for ages. Bryukhanov kissed Fomin's neck, and whispered in his ear, voice thick with promises of their companionship. Wishful, concocted in the heat of the moment, but neither of them cared. It fueled the desire for both of them. Their words ran slurred with pleasure and carelessness. They took turns stroking each other off. Bryukhanov took his time with it. He loved to tease Fomin. Fomin, on the other hand, tried desperately to push things over the edge. He couldn't stand the waiting game. As his body was pressed heavily into Bryukhanov's, a few quick strokes nearly finished them both. A pause, a breath, and just a little bit more stroking... and the pressure was so hard to bear that everything spilled over--neither knew who was first because both of them came together, panting heavily, rubbing against each other as their source of pleasure. Bryukhanov tensed and drew in a shuddery breath, and Fomin clung to him tightly, fingers digging into his shoulder blades, not a chance of letting go until it was through. Not a single thing would separate him from his beloved boss.

As the climax subsided, they eased apart. Cum ran over Bryukhanov's stomach in streaks, and Fomin had caught his equal share of the mess as well, a good half of it spilled over his legs. He leaned back against the desk, sitting close to Bryukhanov, who had shut his eyes because he didn't want to look at the clock. He hoped it wasn't too late in the day. Fomin took off his glasses momentarily to wipe them on one of the discarded shirts that lay on the floor.

"Kolya," Bryukhanov sighed, eyes closed. "Once you get dressed, get me another cup of coffee."

"That's not my job, and you know that." Putting his glasses back on, Fomin broke into a rare bemused smile. Bryukhanov turned his head to give Fomin a questioning glance, and as soon as Fomin met Bryukhanov's eyes, he knew he would go and get that cup of coffee, just like he was told. Forget his job description; he answered to Bryukhanov first. That had been proven as surely as anything.


	3. Right On Top of the Desk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bryukhanov takes a moment to put Fomin in his place.

"And you'll do everything I say, won't you?" Bryukhanov smirked, bringing his hands to rest on Fomin's thighs.

"Oh, shut up," Fomin said. His breath hitched. He couldn't hide it; he was still Bryukhanov's little bitch. No matter how much he tried to put up a front against it.

"I know you love it." Bryukhanov didn't even bother to acknowledge Fomin's rebellious little words. He knew they weren't genuine. He moved forward to kiss Fomin deeply, bringing their mouths together. Fomin tasted the last traces of Bryukhanov's cigarette. And god, he did love it.

They were in the office. Fomin was sprawled on the desk, sitting just on the edge of it, his legs spread out while Bryukhanov stood neatly between them, gripping him closely. They were locked in a passionate, sloppy kiss. Fomin's ass sat against the top of the desk, and Bryukhanov reached under him to grab it.

"You treat me like a toy," Fomin said, his eyebrows knitting together over his glasses. All the same, he didn't even try to stop him.

"It's because you are one," Bryukhanov said. "Mine." Fomin squirmed in his grip, not wanting to confront the fact that being treated like a toy made him harder. "Count yourself lucky I'm gentle," Bryukhanov continued, stroking his hand over Fomin's thigh and moving upward to undo his belt. "If I can treat you like a pathetic little toy, I could break you like one, too." That idea pushed Fomin a little further. His breath came quick and shallow, and he was clearly aroused.

"Nobody believes that," Fomin managed to reply, despite the fact that his mind was filled with thoughts of Bryukhanov getting to break him. "You're nicer than most party bosses out there. You couldn't break anyone."

"You just haven't seen my mean side." Bryukhanov said with a predatory smile. Amusement crossed his face.

"Prove it," Fomin breathed.

The next thing he knew, he was face-down on the desk. Bryukhanov had carelessly turned him over so he was bent over it, his hands behind his back. He was pinned. He couldn't get free of his boss' grip, even if he wanted to, which he didn't. As he struggled, he felt hands move to pull off his clothes.

"Viktor!" He protested. Speaking up was a mistake. Bryukhanov swiftly pushed Fomin's face down on the desk and held it there. He was pinned hard against the wood, his glasses crooked. He couldn't do anything, except struggle powerlessly. When he felt Bryukhanov's hand tug roughly on his collar, the seam pulling at his throat, he cried out against it.

"Shut up," Bryukhanov purred affectionately. "You asked for proof." Fomin couldn't do anything. His face was still squished against the desk. He gritted his teeth. Being bent over against the desk was an uncomfortable position against the desk, but… nearly all of the discomfort melted when he felt Bryukhanov's hard-on, through his pants, pressing right against him.

"Wh-what are you going to do to me?" Fomin asked. Shock was written on his face but the back of his mind had nothing but elation. He would've begged for Bryukhanov to do this to him, and now it was happening and he hardly even had time to take it in.

"Just relax, or it'll really hurt," Bryukhanov said, expertly dodging the question as he stripped Fomin's clothes off. Fomin lay on the desk, pressed against the top of it, back arched and nearly all of his clothes off. His button-up shirt hung off his shoulders. Bryukhanov took hold of one of Fomin's shoulders and gripped it hard. He pulled back his other hand to undo his own belt.

"Oh god, just be gentle," Fomin said, suddenly concerned about his own well-being, in a rare moment of logical thought. Not to mention squeamish about getting hurt.

"Not a chance." Bryukhanov laughed. He was out to break Fomin, after all. He unzipped his pants. Fomin heard it. Almost instinctively, he arched his back, preparing for Bryukhanov's cock. In response, Bryukhanov stroked a hand over the small of his back, coaxing him further into a submissive position.

"What if the engineers find us?" Fomin turned his head, groping for any excuse to stop, anything that would save him from this rough, unbearable, unstoppable punishment that was about to begin.

"Just shut up and take it." Bryukhanov said easily. He grabbed Fomin's shoulders and slid inside of him, harshly. Fomin grew tense. He flinched at the surge of someone else inside his body, but he was staggered at the feeling of it beng Bryukhanov, his very own boss. The pressure inside of his body was thick and intense. He groaned as Bryukhanov pulled out in preparation to give him another thrust.

Bryukhanov had both his hands on Fomin's shoulders now. His jacket was open and his pants were unzipped, but he still had clothes compared to Fomin, whom he had undressed almost to nothing. Bryukhanov's eyes ran over the curves of his back and his neck, and hungrily studied every little detail of the tension on his face and the way his big, adorable glasses were just a little bit out of alignment. Bryukhanov longed to reach over and push them back in place, with the purest affection, but he had something to prove.

Fomin had given up on defending his dignity at all. He was halfway to begging for mercy, and all the way to submitting himself to getting fucked by Bryukhanov like he deserved. Bryukhanov went at it harder, trying to tug a reaction out of Fomin. Any little moan, any snap, any protest, was exactly what he wanted. Fomin tried his absolute best to withstand the roughness, but when Bryukhanov pushed all the way inside of him, he couldn't stifle a guttural moan.

Bryukhanov took that as permission to go harder. He was practically nailing Fomin to the desk. Fomin took every delicious, rough second of it. When Bryukhanov pulled his head back to wrap his fingers around Fomin's throat, Fomin responded by bracing himself against the desk and arching his back, begging for more with his body language. And Bryukhanov gave him exactly what he wanted.

Fomin felt humiliation creep into his mood, but it was the deeply erotic sort, that would push him to debase himself completely for the sake of a little gratification. It didn't help at all that he had a massive crush on his boss. Bryukhanov did all sorts of things to him just by giving him the usual orders at work. The soft voice, the attentive eyes; when directed at Fomin, it would drive him mad. He could vividly recall every single time he sat in a meeting and spent precious time staring at the back of Bryukhanov's curly head, wishing he could have a bit of alone time with him. And now it was happening.

He knew it was going to make him sore. Bryukhanov was going hard on him, too hard. But the roughness was something close to euphoric. He gripped the top of the desk, bracing himself against the vigor of the back-and-forth movement. When Bryukhanov pulled out for a bit, just to tease him, he felt on the edge of begging for him to put it back.

"Please, I want it, you've gone so far already," Fomin pleaded, still bent over the desk, hard as hell, wishing badly for his punishment to continue.

"I could stop right now, you know," Bryukhanov replied, nonchalant. "I could stop and leave you, sat on my desk, aching for more."

Fomin knew he had to get back what he wanted, at any cost. "Alright, maybe you could. But I don't think so. You want it too. You want to be fucking me so hard I beg for it to stop. I bet you couldn't focus on your work if you haven't gotten off on making me your bitch."

The expression on Bryukhanov's face hardened. He pressed the very tip of his thick cock against Fomin's ass, and traced over his back with a fingertip. "Oh, you want to be arrogant, don't you? It looks like I'll have to put you back in your place." Without another word, he thrust so hard into Fomin that the other man recoiled hard and groaned even harder, with pain as well as pleasure. Fomin was in a lot of pain, in fact. He got off on it, but he wasn't going to tell Bryukhanov that. He wasn't going to admit that he was close to the edge when Bryukhanov roughed him up a lot. Bryukhanov held him down like he was a rag doll and it drove him crazy.

It was painful. Not a bit of mercy was given. Bryukhanov had Fomin's head down on the desk again and was going at it like a machine. As he got closer and closer to finishing, he wrapped one hand over Fomin's throat again, choking him. Making him the submissive bitch he knew he would be. When Fomin tapped on the desk, asking for it a bit softer, Bryukhanov almost ignored it and pushed past the limits of what Fomin could take.

"God, it hurts," Fomin finally snapped, breathing shakily from the punishment he had to endure.

"That's just what I like to hear," Bryukhanov replied, his voice thick with pleasure. "So I've proved you wrong, then."

"In your dreams--aagh!" Fomin's protest was cut off as he was choked again. Being smacked around was taking its toll. He felt too close to finishing himself to say anything but "Yes, yes, you're right, you're right!" Bryukhanov squeezed Fomin's throat tight enough to stop him from breathing, and came inside of him, hard. Gripping him just like a toy. Leaned right over the desk, one hand curled around Fomin's neck, the other bracing his body weight against the desk beneath him. 

When he was done, he pulled Fomin off the desk and zipped up his pants. He let Fomin try to struggle back into his clothes on the floor and adjust his glasses properly again. When Fomin was done, he sat on the floor, breathing like he'd run a marathon, still lusting after every inch of Bryukhanov's body, and quietly lamenting how much it hurt to sit down right now. Bryukhanov, unbothered, lit a cigarette at his desk. After all, it was good to have a husband who would be your little bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this drunk, which is why it has no backstory or complex thought put into it, but I know you all love your smut just as much as I do, so I posted it anyway.


End file.
